


Of truths and tokens

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anger, Angst, Crying, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Kissing, Mirkwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin comforts his love after Thranduil removes her courting braid out of spite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of truths and tokens

The elven king’s exasperation was becoming increasingly apparent. He had flattered, cajoled, promised, and threatened, and still you stood silent and uncooperative before him, on the platform below his looming throne. 

“I ask you again, what is the dwarves’ purpose in my lands? What do they seek to accomplish by this quest?” 

“And I say again, why don’t you ask _them_?” you answered determinedly.

With a low growl and two long strides, Thranduil stood directly before you, stooping to look into your face, his thumb and forefinger gripping your chin to force your eyes to meet his. “You are not one of them…you are of the race of men!” His cool, unflappable veneer had cracked, and a muscle in his jaw twitched with vexation. “What have you to gain by throwing in your lot with Thorin Oakenshield?”

You remained mute, staring stubbornly into his eyes – blue like Thorin’s, but icy, where your lover’s were warm and affectionate – and his gaze flickered to the single braid in your hair, and the glint of the silver bead that finished it. An inquisitive look came over his face, and his fingers strayed to the bead, lifting it to examine the dwarvish symbols that adorned it. His mouth set into a hard line. “I see,” he said, in a tone of quiet satisfaction.

Your alarm must have been plain on your face, for he continued. “Oh, yes. I am aware of their primitive rituals of courtship,” he said disdainfully. “Everything is quite plain to me now.” 

With a sudden, almost convulsive, movement, he jerked the bead from your braid, making you gasp in surprise and pain as your hair was pulled. He flung it away carelessly, and you heard its small, metallic ping once on the floor before it disappeared into the cavernous depths of the underground chamber. The strands of your hair, freed from their binding, loosened and unraveled.

“Take her back to the dungeon,” he commanded the guard that stood by. “If it is Oakenshield she desires, she can stay there and rot with him.”

Thorin was pacing the cell like a prowling animal when the guard abruptly shoved you inside, slamming the barred door behind you. He rushed to you, clasping your shoulders with his hands, asking anxiously, “are you all right?”

You nodded, determined to keep your composure until the guard had left, but as the sound of his footsteps died away, you burst into tears, born equally of heartache and frustration.

Thorin looked frantic. “Did he hurt you? So help me, if he has raised a hand to you…”

You shook your head, and he was trying desperately to console you, caressing your face, stroking your hair, when he drew in his breath sharply. His fingers raked through the tousled locks of hair where his courting braid had been, feeling its absence, and his voice was tight as he asked, “did he do this?”

“Yes,” you whispered miserably, chafing at the memory, and at your helplessness in the face of Thranduil’s vindictive act. “He threw the bead away.”

Thorin’s hands had trembled, in the glow of a sunset in a little clearing just beyond the campsite, as he’d carefully woven the silky tresses of your hair into a neat braid and fastened it with a bead taken from his own plaited strands, bearing his own runes. As he worked, he had spoken to you in low, loving tones of the intimacy of the custom, watching you blush prettily in your happy acceptance of his affections. It had been one of the purest, most beautiful moments of his life, and now, the hands of his enemy had spitefully undone his labor of love.

He turned away, his face livid, and abruptly his brawny fist pounded the thick wall of the cell as he called down curses upon the elven king’s descendants for generations to come. At his outburst, your tears flowed afresh, and he looked to you, his fury with Thranduil dissolving into tenderness toward your distress. He quickly enfolded you in his arms, pressing his cheek to yours, his voice gentle. “Shhh, ghivâshel,” he murmured soothingly. “Don’t cry. Everything will be all right.”

“I hate him!” you blurted angrily through sobs.

“I know. I know.” He held you firmly, patiently, swaying ever so slightly in a comforting rhythm. His hands moved to cradle your face, his lips peppering your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks with small, delicate kisses as your weeping subsided, and he reached with the sleeve of his tunic to dry your tears. “There…better?”

With one last ragged intake of breath and a long, steadying sigh, you nodded. 

He gave you an encouraging smile. Taking your hand, he kissed it and placed it on his chest, spreading your fingers over the heavy linen of his tunic, covering it with his own. “Tell me what you feel,” he said, glancing toward your hand.

Your small smile was tinged with curiosity as you concentrated on the steady thump beneath your palm. “Your heart.”

Thorin nodded, looking solemnly at you. “You are my love, my One. Here,” he said softly, lightly tapping the back of your hand that lay on his chest. “My heart needs no braid, or bead, as proof of our bond. It is something no one can take from you.”

Your other hand reached for him, stroking his soft beard gratefully as he leaned into your touch. “I love you,” you murmured.

He smiled. “And I love you, my brave lass.” He pulled you into another embrace. “Do not worry. We will find a way out. And when we reach Erebor,” he promised, “you shall have a new bead, and jewels along with it.”

Your face brightened with your answering smile, and you chuckled softly, with a small shake of your head. “I don’t need jewels, Thorin. Only you.”

He leaned close, just brushing your lips with his before pulling back slightly, leaving you wanting more. Looking into your eyes, his mouth curving in a knowing grin, he returned to kiss you in earnest, his lips lush and warm, his hair soft in your hands as you gathered it away from his face. 

Thorin broke the kiss and rested his forehead against yours for a moment before leading you to the stone bench carved from the wall of the cell. With a sigh, you sat down close beside him. You looked to him with a hopeful smile and received a reassuring nod in return as he wrapped his strong arms protectively around you, his hand gently bringing your head to rest against his. You closed your eyes in calm, reminded that Thranduil couldn’t touch you, not truly. You and Thorin would wait – undaunted, unbroken, together – for whatever fate would bring, and together you would find your happiness…even in the dungeon of Mirkwood.


End file.
